


Where You Find Them

by ratherastory



Series: spn_las [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, spn_las
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-07
Updated: 2010-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the second challenge at spn_las. The prompt was "lost moments." Sam does a whole lot of introspecting on Blackwater Ridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Find Them

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Notes: Yeah. So, I'm having trouble with the prompts at LAS. They have got to be the most uninspiring things ever. I'm hoping it'll get better soon, because it's not exactly making me produce my best work.

Sam keeps a journal of his own, now. Inside it he's tucked the only photograph he has of Jess that didn't burn in the fire, and the photograph that he rescued from Dad's motel room in Jericho, abandoned along with everything else Dad chose not to take with him when he ditched Dean for wherever it is he was going. It's grainy and faded almost to sepia tones, the only one in which all three Winchesters are together which has survived the years. John is holding a sullen-looking Sam in his lap, perched on the hood of the Impala, Dean next to him, leaning against his shoulder, all proud in his flannel hunting shirt and cap. It was the day before Sam's birthday, and there had been a freak cold-snap in South Dakota. Dean had insisted that Bobby take the picture, to celebrate, he said, and the day Sam turned nine their father left for a three-week hunting trip. He'd never called until his return.

Their lives are made up of fragments. Of lost moments. Of polaroids and shots taken by strangers with instamatics. Of missed birthdays and empty promises. Of newspaper clippings and drugstore prints tucked into wallets. Torn and damaged and stained. Discarded and lost. Left behind in filthy motel rooms. Sam only learned to smile for pictures when he was at Stanford, when Jess teased and coaxed and cajoled, and his friends taunted him for never showing his teeth.

“C'mon, dimples! Show me your stuff!” she'd wrinkle her nose, and that never failed to make him laugh, even as his chest ached with loss.

Jess kept a photo album in their room, painstakingly maintained. She wasn't the scrapbook type, but she glued the pictures carefully to black pages an annotated them in white, all the names in order, left to right, and a one-sentence summary of what they were doing.

“One day you'll be glad we have this,” she'd said. “And you'll feel really stupid for never smiling. All those missed opportunities to be happy.”

There's nothing left of that now. It's all ashes and coal, left behind along with the rest of his life in California. Nothing to look back on, only the road stretching out ahead, to closure, or revenge, or... something. The fire is dwindling, and Sam can't help but shiver in the chilly air of the Colorado night. The dying embers lend an eerie glow to Hayley Collins' features, but she looks peaceful enough, if worried, her arm over her younger brother's shoulders. Ben is asleep, head resting against her shoulder. Hayley's left all her memories at home, the pictures and emails and videos. The text messages. There were photographs adorning all the walls, all the available surfaces of her home. Her parents, her brothers. Friends, family, school outings. Smiling kids, people making faces at the camera, goofing off. No regrets there, only happy memories. They'll be waiting for her when she gets home.

Sam flips his notebook closed, obscuring the scowl on his nine-year-old face, on Dean's smug look, on Dad's forced smile. He doesn't know what made him pick up the photograph. It obviously meant nothing to his father, shouldn't mean anything to him either. Their happy memories aren't real, just something forced by outsiders, when they happened at all. For years Dean carried a strip of cheap pictures taken in a booth when Dean was seven and Sam was three. Dean is grinning like a loon, both front teeth missing, Sam hoisted up on his lap and squirming, his hair still curling a little and mussed, falling into his eyes. Sam can't remember if he smiled in those photos, wonders if Dean still has them, tucked away somewhere, creased beyond recognition, the colour bleeding out into the leather of his wallet. The only reason they ever had pictures was because of Dean.

He starts as hands clamp down on his shoulders, then feels the tension drain from him with an exasperated huff as Dean laughs and cuffs him behind the head.

“Relax, Sammy! What's crawled up your butt, anyway?”

“Nothing. And it's Sam.”

Dean snorts, drops down to sit next to him on the cold ground, and nudges him with his shoulder. “Whatever you say. Come on, dude, cheer up! We've got an evil son of a bitch to kill, civilians to protect, and then we can go find Dad. What's not to be happy about?”

“Making up for lost time?” Sam asks wryly, and Dean blinks, a little nonplussed at his apparently off-topic comment. Then he rolls his eyes, and wraps an arm around Sam's neck, hauling him close and ignoring his yelp of protest.

“Don't be a girl, Sammy. We live for moments like this, remember? Now say cheese!”

Dean whips out his cell phone, holds it at arm's length with a delighted cackle, and a reluctant smile spreads over Sam's face. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes, then leans against his brother to make sure they both fit in the frame as Dean snaps a picture with the cheap built-in cell phone camera.

For the first time in years, he thinks he might not be lost anymore.


End file.
